She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. Never again to be alone! To fit herself into this man's life as a hand into a glove; to use all her skill to force him into the position of depending upon her utterly; to be the spark to the divine fire! He should have his book, even if it had to be written with her heart's blood. " "It is past," rejoined Lady Trafford, recovering herself by a powerful effort; "but never allude to the circumstance again.
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